She Sat Me by the Kitchen at My Son’s Wedding — So I Burned It All Down With One Phone Call

under my feet—gravy, maybe, or some kind of sauce that had congealed into a sticky puddle. My shoes—cream-colored pumps I’d bought specifically for this wedding—stuck slightly when I shifted them, making a soft peeling sound against the linoleum.

I looked at my nails, freshly done in a soft pink at the salon yesterday, then at the cold chicken breast continue reading …